


Football and Khaki

by trash4ficsaboutlurv



Series: Captain Falcon Flies [5]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Fluff, M/M, Thanksgiving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-24
Updated: 2015-11-24
Packaged: 2018-05-03 03:17:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5274536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trash4ficsaboutlurv/pseuds/trash4ficsaboutlurv
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam tries to get out of Thanksgiving at Stark Tower and bribes Steve into doing something unpleasant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Football and Khaki

“So, did you guys have Thanksgiving football back in your day?” Sam asked, dunking his hands into the hot, soapy dishwater and pulling up a fistful of utensils. He had pressganged Steve into drying the dishes and putting them away, and Steve had already managed to break two glasses and a plate. Sam had the sneaking suspicion Steve made a nuisance out of himself to get out of helping. Ask the guy to fight to his last breath to protect the world and he was on the battlefield an hour early and ready to go. Ask him to throw a load of whites in the laundry and he turned into Mr. Useless. Sam would be annoyed if Steve didn’t look so stupid cute every time he sheepishly held up a bent fork or a cracked cup.

He’d complained bitterly early on that Sam never used his dishwasher and asked what was the point of having amazing technology like the dishwasher in his house if he had no intention of ever putting a dirty dish in it?

Unfortunately, Sam had inherited his mother’s distaste for dishwashers, Swiffer mops, and Roombas. There was just no way there was such an easy way to get your home deep-down clean. And so, Sam spent his Sundays scrubbing, sweeping, and tidying his home to satisfaction with the football games playing in the background. But since Steve had arrived (bringing Bucky, Nat, and Clint along), it had been more of a battle keeping the house in order.

Right now, Steve was giving Sam that annoyed look that meant, “God, I’m not that old.” He wiped his hands on the dish towel. “Yeah, Sam, we had football in the 1940s.”

Sam rolled his eyes and focused on the bits of lasagna in the corners of a casserole dish. “I mean, Thanksgiving football. Three games. Everyone around the TV. Or, I guess, around the radio.”

Steve shrugged. Today he was wearing one of Sam’s college T-shirts. Sam often thought about pointing out that Steve should be wearing a size large (at least) and certainly not a shirt from before Sam joined the army and put on some bulk. But he could never quite bring himself to ruin such a good thing.

“I wasn’t really into it,” Steve continued. “90 pounds and asthmatic. And then, after the serum, there was a war and…” He trailed off.

Sam smiled. “It probably wouldn’t be fair nowadays.” He looked Steve up and down appraisingly and a pretty pink blush colored Steve’s cheeks.

Steve looked at his shoes. “Like a brick wall, right?”

Sam set the casserole dish back into the water and turned to face Steve head-on. “You ever thrown a football?” he asked. He grabbed Steve’s hands, flipped them over to show the palms. Steve shivered when Sam traced his thumbs over the creases. He was weirdly sensitive like that. Sam bit his lip to keep from grinning. “You’ve got the hands for it. Nice and big.”

Steve’s blush was deep pink and Sam was reminded of how far that flush went. He leaned against the counter and pulled Steve toward him. Steve came forward with bright eyes. Sam loved that: Steve came when he pulled, went where he pushed. The guy was unmovable when he wanted to be and would have made any quarterback grateful to have him on the offensive line. He balked against Sam’s gentlest requests to tidy up or to stop arm wrestling Bucky on the Ikea coffee table.

But when Steve thought he might get some loving, he went pliant and yielding. He said he didn’t mind taking orders from Sam. Which was heady in all the right ways.

Right now, Sam was kissing the pads of Steve’s fingertips. “With hands like these,” he murmured, “you could be one hell of a receiver.”

Steve’s eyebrow arched.

“Shut up,” Sam laughed. He let Steve’s hands drop. “I just think we should do football this Thanksgiving. We went to the Tower last year.”

Steve gave Sam a knowing look and Sam tried not to notice it.

It was just that Sam still hadn’t quite recovered from the intensity of the Avengers last year. He was good with Bucky, Nat, and Clint; his life would have been hell if he hadn’t made his peace with all their chaos. But throw Tony, Darcy, and Pietro into the mix and the hi-jinks got a bit too out of hand--even with Rhodey and Pepper trying to enforce some kind of order.

Last year, Rhodey had said, “Sorry, man,” to Sam more times that he could remember and Sam had gone out to hide on one of the balconies when a food fight—a literal food fight—broke out. It wasn’t that Sam didn’t know how to have fun, but Thanksgiving had always been a quiet holiday for him.

Since their dad died, Sam and his brother Gideon had made it a tradition to Skype one another, watch the football games together, and eat: Sam with his takeout, Gideon gloating over the riches of their mama’s kitchen. Sam’s mom and sister Sarah would come into the frame for a bit, the nieces and nephews would shriek past at some point, but mostly it was just Sam and Gideon, insulting the offensive coordinators and taking bets on how long before a quarterback got whiny about a perfectly good play call.

The Avengers were too next-level with their celebrations. And when it got to that saccharine part of the evening when everyone said what they were grateful for, Sam had thought he was going to burst out of his skin. The way everyone had been able to say what they were thankful for without embarrassment or fear of rejection, the looks of love exchanged, the casual touching. And then there was Sam, nursing a crush so stupid he wanted to smack himself in the face for it. Couldn’t say:

What I’m most thankful for is the way Steve’s ass looks when he laps me twenty times in a morning.

Or I’m thankful that Steve’s out of job and couldn’t stand the thought of living with Tony, so he settled for me.

Or that sometimes when he comes out of the shower, his towel sits dangerously low on his hips and…

Sam had said some generic stuff about being in a completely different place this year than last and how he was looking forward to what came next, and he had studiously avoided looking at Steve. His toast was a far cry from the maudlin affair of Wanda’s speech about Pietro and how she’d almost lost him in the fight at Sokovia. Or the way Pepper looked at Tony with exasperated affection as she talked about their unexpected adventures. Or how Tony looked at Rhodey when he mentioned friends who kept his ego just this side of the Eighth Wonder of the World. And yeah, Bucky and Steve had both dropped Sam’s name in their toasts, but Sam still didn’t feel like the Tower was his scene.

A year later, Sam didn’t see the Tower being less arduous than last year. Tony still wasn’t letting up on the teasing about Sam and Steve’s very new relationship, Darcy was bound to make some comment about how all the good guys were dating all the other good guys, and they’d be building forts out of Tony’s expensive-as-hell furniture before dessert. And that sounded fun and all, but Thanksgiving was a sacred day for Sam. He would happily give the Tower Christmas or 4th of July. He drew the line at Thanksgiving. *His* Thanksgiving. What could now be his and Steve’s Thanksgiving.\

Sam wanted to stay in with Steve, get Gideon and the family on video chat, eat hot wings and nachos on his couch, and scream at giant men shoving each other up and down a hundred yards of football field. And it would be fun to introduce Steve to the game. Guide him away from some of the more insufferable teams and watch that passion for the sport spark in his eyes. Sam had learned over the past year or so that Steve had such a lovely “Oh, I like that”-face and he went to a lot of trouble to get that expression. It shouldn’t have surprised him so much when Steve made that face in bed. It was somewhere between delighted surprise and unabashed wonder.

“I know the Avengers are your family,” Sam began.

“Your family, too,” Steve interrupted.

“But Thanksgiving is important to me.”

“Sitting around watching other people fight over a ball?”

“And their honor,” Sam added. Steve raised an incredulous brow and Sam grinned. “There’s a game on right now,” he said, pointing a soapy hand toward the living room where the ref’s whistles bleated from the speakers. “Pittsburgh vs. the Jets. New York team. Watch it with me. If you hate it, we go to the Tower.”

Steve smiled and plucked at the hem of Sam’s shirt. “What about your dirty dishes?”

Sam turned Steve by his shoulders in the direction of the living room. “They can wait.”

When Steve opened his mouth to make some smart-ass remark about how if the dishes weren’t cleaned by 19:00 hours exactly, Sam’s entire world would implode, Sam pinched his ass and Steve got distracted with that goofy sex grin on his face.

“You know the rules, right?” Sam asked when he’d wiggled into a comfortable position against Steve on the couch.

“Push past the opponent to the opposite side,” Steve said.

Sam cringed at the lack of sophistication. “More or less. Now, you have to forgive these guys for not having your level of athleticism, but they’re the best in the nation, minus you gods, super soldiers, and mutants.”

Steve idly drew circles on Sam’s side, and the heat of his hand bled through Sam’s shirt. “I believe you,” he said. He leaned forward to give the screen his undivided attention.

Sam glanced up at Steve instead of watching the game, waiting for that “I like this” gleam. Steve studied the screen like he was looking over maps of enemy territory. He nodded a few times and the crowd cheered, and Sam was too curious not to check the score.

Pittsburgh was up two touchdowns.

“Who do you root for?” Steve asked.

Sam shook his head. “No one in particular. Depends on the game, depends on the season. I try to root for the New York teams, but…” he shook his head, “that’s usually an uphill climb. Sometimes I go for Atlanta. That’s where my folks live.”

Steve nodded. “What’s this formation called?” he asked, pointing at the screen.

Sam tilted his head. Yep, there was definitely a gleam in Steve’s eye. “That’s the shotgun,” he said and started to explain the positions. The casserole dish was forgotten, moldering in lukewarm water.

 

****

 

Steve put off telling Tony he and Sam were skipping the Tower until Wednesday night. Sam had promised Steve a lot of sexual favors to get out of being the one to turn down Tony’s invitation. Tony didn’t do well with ‘no thank you’s.

“I’m not splitting up the gang,” Steve was insisting into the receiver. “We’ll do Christmas.” He looked up at Sam and Sam nodded. “He likes you just fine….didn’t he catch you when Hydra hacked your suit?....And he took out that missile coming for you in Prague….And….yeah, he doesn’t do that for just anyone….We just want Thanksgiving, Tony….Of course.” Steve laughed at something Tony said and looked Sam up and down. Sam frowned. “I’ll even make sure he’s not in a button-down….Fine, no khakis, either….Haha, okay….okay…fine…bye.” Steve hung up.

“No khakis,” Sam repeated, bemused.

“Tony thinks you’re no fun.”

Sam frowned and Steve laughed.

“His exact words were: ‘How did you manage to find someone even older than you?’ Which,” Steve said thoughtfully, sliding his belt out of its loops, “is an interesting observation. You’re really weird about cleanliness, you don’t listen to any music after the 70s—”

“Beyoncé,” Sam offered.

“You told me Beyoncé didn’t count. I think you called her ‘timeless.’” Steve stepped out of his shoes. “You wear more khaki than me and your bedtime is 10:00.” He pointed at Sam’s pants, reminding Sam that he owed Steve for making the call. “And Tony thinks you don’t like him,” Steve added, stepping out of his jeans.

“He thought you didn’t like him when you guys met," Sam pointed out. 

Steve smirked before pulling his shirt over his head. “I didn’t.” 

Sam laughed. He mirrored Steve's movements and took off his undershirt. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers. “I’ll show him how fun I can be at the Christmas party," he promised.

Steve looked Sam up and down. “I thought I was the only one who got to see that.” He closed the distance between them and proceeded to kiss Sam senseless.

When Sam came up for air, he wondered if he was ever going to get over just how cheesy his star-spangled boyfriend was? As Steve kissed him down on to the sofa, he had to admit: Probably not.

**Author's Note:**

> I was between writing the above and another fic where the Avengers played touch football for Thanksgiving. I, alas, do not have the technical skill to pull off that large of a cast in an action scene. 
> 
> But can you imagine??? All the over-competitiveness, the cheating, the excuses for egregious flirting??? Basically, Civil War minus any angst.


End file.
